Things Fall Apart
by FallingStarXan
Summary: Ever since the North African campaigns failed, Italy and Germany have been growing further and further apart. One-shot, slight GerIta, historical references.


**"_Turning and turning in the widening gyre_**  
_** The falcon cannot hear the falconer;**_  
_** Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;**_  
_** Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,**_  
_** The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere**_  
_** The ceremony of innocence is drowned;**_  
_** The best lack all conviction, while the worst**_  
_** Are full of passionate intensity..."**_

_**- William Butler Yeats, 'The Second Coming'**_

* * *

Ever since the North African campaigns had ended in decisive failure not a week before, Italy had been lurching about like a depressed, badly acted movie zombie. "I have a _headache_," he kept moaning. "Oh god, my skull hurts... Why won't the light stop...?" And so on, _ad nauseaum_.

It was really starting to get to Germany. The lurching and the moaning had been slightly endearing the first, oh, maybe four seconds, (when you factored in the response of the tiny sympathy nodule buried in the recesses of Germany's highly efficient mind), but then after that it was just annoying. For a country that was fighting in the most half-assed way imaginable, Italy was in no position to complain about battle cramps.

"For god's _sake_, Italy!" Germany had snapped at least twice, slamming his fist on the desk. "Stopthat noise! Can't a man wage war in peace anymore?"

For a moment this had stumped Italy. "Is that a paradox?" he'd groaned. "I can't do paradoxes right now... my brain hurts too much..." And then he'd collapsed on the sofa, face-first. "_Umpf_."

Germany continued to _clickety-clack _away at the typewriter, assiduously composing a new strategy regarding the placement of heavy artillery, although his agitated frame of mind began to show through. He had the feeling he was writing the same sentence over and over. The phrase 'high-ground advantage' seemed to be cropping up in unseemly amounts on the page.

"Can't you close the curtains, at least?" Italy eventually whined. "It's too _bright!_"

Germany savagely mashed out another 'high-ground advantage'. "No, I can_not_," he said through gritted teeth. "I need the light to work. Now..." He looked at the paper for a long moment, "... please... " tore it out of the roller, "... leave... " and then crumpled it, "... me... " and inserted a fresh page, "... _alone_."

"You never even bothered to _ask_," Italy said disconsolately, his voice muffled.

What had his point about 'high-ground advantages' _been_ anyway...? "Ask what?" said Germany distractedly.

Italy rolled his eyes like it was obvious. "Why I _have_ this headache in the first place, _dummkopf_," he answered, punching the pillow with all the strength and resolve of a whip made of limp noodle. "You never _asked_."

"Don't steal my swear words," retorted Germany automatically, and hit the carriage return.

For a while the Mediterranean nation was blessedly silent. Then he said, with sickly sweet tones, "You do _remember_ what happened the other day... don't you, Germany?"

There was an edge to the way Italy asked the question. It sounded an awful lot like the deadly, wifely question: "Does this make me look fat?" And Germany was not in the mood to play harried husband to Italy's insecurities. "No, I don't," snapped Germany. "I have other things to worry about besides your constant wellbeing."

"You completely forgot about my being shot in the head?" Italy said, his voice ratcheting up an octave in his indignation.

Germany covered his eyes. "Oh, _Gott_, not this again," he mumbled.

"It was the most traumatic experience of my entire life!" shrilled Italy.

"It was one little bullet!" Germany protested.

Offended, Italy pulled a face_._ "Well, it was _my_ head! And now it hurts!"

It looked like the treatise on artillery would have to wait, Germany thought. Who would have guessed Italy could be this much of a brat? Heaving a sigh, he pushed the typewriter back against the wall and swiveled in his seat to better lecture his ally. "Listen to me, you spineless wop," he began firmly.

"You're _racializing_ again!" complained Italy loudly. "You _promised_ you wouldn't do that to me! It's so mean!"

"Listen to me, you spineless national personification," Germany said tonelessly. "If you are going to lie there and complain about _surviving_ a shot to the head, then I will quite _happily_ do you the favor of _putting you out of your misery!_"

Italy made another discontented noise and turned over on the couch. He seemed a bit cowed by Germany's outburst, and said nothing. Still, nothing meant he also wasn't begging for mercy or bursting into tears.

This newfound uncooperativeness and hostility Italy Veneziano had developed was starting to trouble Germany, since it was so uncharacteristic. Still ditzy, still useless, still emotionally weak, but far less friendly and far less forgiving. He had a feeling it was Italy Romano's fault, because ever since Germany had put his foot down and made Veneziano go live in his own damn house, the Italian brothers had grown closer together, and, as a result, further from their ally. Germany had no idea of the kinds of diabolical lies Romano was feeding his brother. He had no idea of the kinds of diabolical _truths_ that Romano was telling about him either, and some of those were worse than the lies. It was almost certainly Romano's fault... unless it was just the way that the war was taking its toll.

Though his heart was hard, Germany found himself truly missing the old Italy Veneziano. Or, as he couldn't help but think, _his_ Italy. There was _his_ Italy and there was the other Italy. Except _his _Italy _wasn't_, not anymore.

And maybe being shot in the head, even if Italy _was_ a nation and thus only loosely bound by the physical effects that reality had on his manifested human form, might still be a pretty unpleasant thing.

Germany twisted in his chair and began to phrase in his head the first few words of an unwilling apology, but he found himself nose-to-nose with the very nation he was about to address. "_Mein Gott!_" he exploded. "Don't stand so close! What are you doing?"

"I wanted to say sorry," said Italy nervously. He didn't back off, instead moving even more uncomfortably close to Germany. "I've been mean to you, haven't I?"

"Er... probably no less than I deserve," said Germany, as sweat beaded on the back of his neck. "By the way, have you ever heard of personal space?"

Italy's eyes were distant. "_Dio_, Germany..." he suddenly whispered. "I just don't know what to do anymore..."

Germany was sure he was going red. "What... what are you...?" he stuttered.

Instead of responding, Italy placed his hands on his Germany's shoulders and stared into his eyes like he was searching for something. It was so uncannily un-Italy-like that it froze Germany in place. And, with him so close, Germany noticed for the first time the creases on Italy's once-smooth, tanned forehead. Worry lines, like Germany's own, though less defined at this stage. There were faint shadows growing under Italy's gorgeous amber eyes... and were those _gray_ wisps of hair amongst his auburn locks? What ghosts were haunting the nation's thoughts at this very moment? Where was the joy; where was the innocence?

Then Germany shook himself out of his trance and roughly pushed Italy away. "Apology accepted. Now... go take some Aspirin and lie down. That's an order."

"Yes..." Italy paused. "Sir." He didn't even salute, but nodded tiredly and left the room at a slow, pondering pace.

Germany pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed hard, re-hearing the pause between the 'yes' and the 'sir' over and over in his head until his whole skull throbbed with pregnant silence. Things really were changing between them. And everything just got worse and worse until it all fell apart.

**A/N: The historical significance in this story is crucial. The North African campaigns ended on May 13, 1943. September 8 of 1493, Italy deposed Benito Mussolini, surrendered to the Allies and immediately was invaded by the Nazis, who occupied Rome and northern Italy. **

**And now you know.**

**I own neither the poem nor Hetalia.**


End file.
